De raccoon totes a bushy tail,
De ’possum totes no ha’r,
Mr. Rabbit, he come skippin’ by,
He ain’t got none ter spar’.

Monday mornin’ break er day,
W’ite folks got me gwine,
But Sat’dy night, w’en de sun goes down,
Dat yaller gal’s in my mine.

Fifteen poun’ er meat a week,
W’isky for ter sell,
Oh, how can a young man stay at home,
Dem gals dey look so well?

Met a ’possum in de road—­
Bre’ ’Possum, whar you gwine? 
I thank my stars, I bless my life,
I’m a huntin’ for de muscadine.

VIII.  THE BIG BETHEL CHURCH

DE Big Bethel chu’ch! de Big Bethel chu’ch! 
Done put ole Satun behine um;
Ef a sinner git loose fum enny udder chu’ch,
De Big Bethel chu’ch will fine um!

Hit’s good ter be dere, en it’s sweet ter be dere,
Wid de sisterin’ all aroun’ you—­
A shakin’ dem shackles er mussy en’ love
Wharwid de Lord is boun’ you.

Hit’s sweet ter be dere en lissen ter de hymns,
En hear dem mo’ners a shoutin’—­
Dey done reach de place whar der ain’t no room
Fer enny mo’ weepin’ en doubtin’.

Hit’s good ter be dere w’en de sinners all jine
Wid de brudderin in dere singin’,
En it look like Gaberl gwine ter rack up en blow
En set dem heav’m bells ter ringin’!

Oh, de Big Bethel chu’ch! de Big Bethel chu’ch,
Done put ole Satun behine am;
Ef a sinner git loose fum enny udder chu’ch
De Big Bethel chu’ch will fine um!

IX.  TIME GOES BY TURNS

DAR’S a pow’ful rassle ’twix de Good en de Bad,
En de Bad’s got de all—­under holt;
En w’en de wuss come, she come i’on-clad,
En you hatter hol’ yo’ bref for de jolt.

But des todes de las’ Good gits de knee-lock,
En dey draps ter de groun’—­ker flop! 
Good had de inturn, en he stan’ like a rock,
En he bleedzd for ter be on top.

De dry wedder breaks wid a big thunder-clap,
For dey ain’t no drout’ w’at kin las’,
But de seasons w’at whoops up de cotton crap,
Likewise dey freshens up de grass.

De rain fall so saf’ in de long dark night,
Twel you hatter hol’ yo’ han’ for a sign,
But de drizzle w’at sets de tater-slips right
Is de makin’ er de May-pop vine.

In de mellerest groun’ de clay root ’ll ketch
En hol’ ter de tongue er de plow,
En a pine-pole gate at de gyardin-patch
Never ’ll keep out de ole brindle cow.

One en all on us knows who’s a pullin’ at de bits
Like de lead-mule dat g’ides by de rein,
En yit, somehow or nudder, de bestest un us gits
Mighty sick er de tuggin’ at de chain.

Hump yo’se’f ter de load en fergit de distress,
En dem w’at stan’s by ter scoff,
For de harder de pullin’, de longer de res’,
En de bigger de feed in de troff.

A STORY OF THE WAR